I believe in Odd, the number almighty, creator of digits of worth. I believe in Even, His mate, number adored. Conceived by the integers transmit and born of the burgeon gyri. He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was misapplied, divide, and was varied. He descended to the zed. On the third ray he rows again. He ascended into seven and is repeated at the right and of the interger. He will sum again to judge the sieving and the spread. I believe in the Coli Omit, the holy data quick research, the profusion of taints, the forgiveness of grins, the resurrection of the bawdy, and life everpasting.

Sit to it. A charming day to begin. Sit down and take a walk. Yes, my protagonist a listless lady, no more young. Aged and virtuous and badtempered woman. I must write it without nostalgia. Throw in local color. All I know. The onelegged sailor on crutches just now? Angry. Growling. Not right for my little book. Post traumatic, you see, home from war, leg left behind. O Lord, look upon Thy servant laboring under bodily weakness. Cherish and receive the soul which Thou hast created, so that, purified by his sufferings, he may soon find himself healed by Thy mercy. Through Christ our Lord. A charming woman with such a, what should I say? Such a queenly mein. Did she commit adultery fully with her husband’s brother? Eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris? Only her confessor would know and we never tell. Secrets. God created the sexual drive for more than procreation but why? The ways of God are not our ways. I’ve heard much from our good people. An aged and virtuous and badtempered woman wants to keep confessing. Bless you my child now get on with you. Bless you my child. Off you go. Amen. Amen now. I bear your secrets confessed. Now the book. A woman like Mrs. Sheehy, two boys. Young, delightful boys. Wonderful little schoolboys. Asked after Father Vaughan, his sermon on Pilate impressed her. Simple, respectable woman. He has been transferred again to another parish. He won’t be back. The ways of God are not our ways. But my little book. A woman perhaps like Mrs. McGuinness, stately like Mary, Queen of Scots. A pawnbroker, imagine that. Doing quite well these days. What time is it? The ninth hour. The death of Christ, his descent into hell. People are more open to temptation at this hour. More than any other time. I must be guarded. Protect my soul, God’s soul if one might say, created by God. We die a bit in this hour; our souls descend to hell. In this hour Adam and Eve, serpent plagued, were driven from the garden. Viperous temptations. And fasting. Don’t eat of the fruit. Don’t eat of anything. Nothing into the mouth. Respectful, grave, Mr. Denis J Maginni professor of dancing and much else surprises passersby with the contrasting effect of a serious disposition with tight lavender skinnyjeans. This is the hour schoolboys leave their lessons and raise their young mouths in play, young cries in the quiet. Schoolboys, good boys. What was that boy’s name? Dignam. Yes. Martin Cunningham’s request. Yes. Yes indeed. Oblige him if possible. Youthful bodies bounding in play. Good boys at school. Good little men. Grow up. Become like the young man and his young woman emerging from the shrubberies. God’s ways are not our ways. His face, flushed looking two ways toward terror and pity. Rubbing his groin in his pockets. Looks two ways toward desire and loathing. Rubbing his groin. A hooded reptilian face. poignant eyes, reptile like. Self-embittered: a shriveled soul. That tyrannous incontinence necessary to maintain our race on earth. Then death to so many, and so many unprepared. Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed then give them to Corny Kelleher to prepare for burial. I feel it incumbent upon myself to say a few words before I descend into excessive solemnity. I like cheerful decorum. Perhaps I will join them together, bride and bridegroom. Beautiful weather today. A charming day. Delightful indeed. A peaceful day.

[Scene: On a hill in the levant ages ago, two friends unaware they ought to be anything but, sit in a smoke filled tent contemplating the future.]

The Roman: Ah we are far from Rome. Imperial, imperious, imperative, imperium.

The Jew: Imperil, imperish, impermissible, impermanent. You Romans may think we are the fat in the fire but your civilization hasn’t got the chance of a snowball in hell.

The Roman: You don’t believe in hell. Here, throw some more of that on the fire, would you? Thanks.

The Jew: Vast, Vastative, Vatinian, Vile, Vility, Villian.

The Roman: Vassal, Vastate, Vaste, Vastity, Vasectomy.

The Jew: Breathe deeply. What do you see. Look there. Is it just the smoke or are you seeing it too?

The Roman: I see something. Wait, yes.

The Jew: Yes, it is more clear. I feel giddy, lightheaded, but yes I can see. This is the place. We have found it. It is meet to be here. This is the place to settle and build a future. From here we shall multiply and prosper. Let us build an altar to Jehovah.

The Roman: Yes. Yes. It is meet to be here. Let us construct a toilet. And let the plumbing of this great work signal to the world the grandeur that is eternal Rome.

The Jew: Weren’t you going to take that job, that position in Judea, Pontius? Prelate was it?

The Roman: It would be such a bore; nothing interesting ever happens in Judea. But they do have toilets. Perhaps I will. Let’s breathe some more of this smoke, I’m feeling peaceful.

Like this:

Feels like it should be later than now. I asked Molly what INRI means. She said Iron Nails Ran In. And IHS means I Have sinned: or no: I Have Suffered. Wouldn’t mind suffering a little more. I’ll command Martha to meet me at St James. Run into whom? Exactly. Hear the mass. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don’t keep us all night over it. I’ll say do not deny me. Bring a veil and a black bag. Want a little wine? Prepare for confession. Everybody wants to. Come on, tell me a little then I will tell you all. And now some penance. Punish me please. Lovely shame. Hello! Fly open. This whole time?